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Un-enlightenment: The Key to Missing Your Lifehttp://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/02/28/un-enlightenment-the-key-to-missing-your-life/
http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/02/28/un-enlightenment-the-key-to-missing-your-life/#commentsSat, 28 Feb 2015 21:41:57 +0000http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/?p=8802Is contentment affecting your mood? Are you feeling calm despite all the chaos in your life? Do you find yourself enjoying daily meditation? Is the true essence of your inner being in sync with the universe and vibrating at the …]]>Is contentment affecting your mood? Are you feeling calm despite all the chaos in your life? Do you find yourself enjoying daily meditation? Is the true essence of your inner being in sync with the universe and vibrating at the same frequency?
If you answered yes to any of these questions, you might be suffering from a condition called Enlightenment. You are not alone. Do not worry. (Can you even do that anymore?)
Due to the insidious work of influential authors and spiritual leaders, many people just like you have been affected by mindfulness. You take each moment as it comes, neither judging nor resisting it. You levitate above the clawing, grasping reach of past trauma and future worry. Tsk. Tsk. Such a shame.
But finally there is help for all the un-misguided fools of the world. My simple five-step program is guaranteed to keep inner peace from intruding on your otherwise healthy, normal anguish and frustration.

1. RUMINATION. The perfect antidote to meditation. Embrace the past. Grab it and hold on as if it were a piece of wreckage from the Titanic. Living in the past is a great way to overlook the reality of the moment.
Some recollections are of a positive nature. Cast your mind back to when you were young and the world was at your feet and you felt like you could do anything. Contemplate how very long ago that was and how you really didn’t appreciate that feeling at the time and how you will never get those wonderful years back. If you’re starting to feel empty, you know you’re making progress.
Other memories are less pleasant: a mistake you can never correct, an unkindness you now regret, a relationship that withered, an embarrassing moment when you wished the earth would split open and swallow you whole. Once you train the mind, it’s easy to keep these feelings raw and alive.
Let’s say you messed up an important presentation. In the grand scheme of things, does it really matter? Of course it does! Now, use the power of your mind to recall every detail of that event — what you were wearing, the temperature or smell of the room, the pattern of the carpet, the disappointment of the audience. Keep those feelings active for a minute or two every few minutes and gradually increase the frequency until the crushing weight of regret haunts you day and night.

2. ANTICIPATION. Many people find themselves troubled when they think about the future. If you’re not doing this, you’re missing out on an excellent way to avoid living in the moment. What’s going to happen to the Earth? To your children, your relatives, your friends? What about you? Will you be okay? Embrace the uncertainty. Dwell on it. Keep asking yourself What If? Assume the worst is coming so that anything less will be a pleasant surprise. This, my friends, is the secret to un-lightenment.

3. ATTITUDE OF INGRATITUDE. Perhaps things are going well for you. Or maybe it’s just a beautiful sunny day. Do you pause and feel grateful? Do you count your blessings? What on earth are you doing that for? Tomorrow could be cloudy. In fact, it probably will be. Try taking things for granted just a few times every day and soon it will become a habit. The little seed of dissatisfaction deep within will sprout and grow into a tall plant — something like a sunflower after the first frost. Magnificent.

4. REMEMBER TO NOT BREATHE. A time-honoured technique for centring one’s self and calming the body and mind is to breathe consciously and deeply, expanding the diaphragm with every in-breath and exhaling with contentment. Yeah, let’s not do that. Short, shallow breaths will instil a sense of unease, triggering the fight-or-flight reflex. Remember, it’s never too soon to panic.

5. AGOY. It’s yoga spelled backwards. The sacred practise of agoy involves not stretching while not breathing. If you’re a beginner, start with the Ungrateful Child Pose: sit with your arms crossed while pouting. Progress to Defeated Warrior 1 (kneeling, lots of flinching) and end with the profoundly meaningful Ground Salutation (arms straight, fists clenched, looking down). Forget Namaste. By tradition, each Agoy session ends with fists near the heart. Now repeat after me. Dumbasstay.
Have you ever been driving on the highway and caught yourself daydreaming? It’s not unusual to miss entire half-hour segments of your life. That’s what we’re going for here.
Take this to heart. Life is a trip. Only you can make it fly by so fast you don’t even notice. Remember: Even the longest journey ends with a single step.

]]>http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/02/28/un-enlightenment-the-key-to-missing-your-life/feed/0camfullerIt was a happy year for sad movieshttp://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/02/21/it-was-a-happy-year-for-sad-movies/
http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/02/21/it-was-a-happy-year-for-sad-movies/#commentsSat, 21 Feb 2015 16:39:15 +0000http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/?p=8799Traditionally, the end of the movie year is celebrated in a star-studded ceremony called the Sadcademy Awards.
The saddest films from Hollywood and around the world are honoured in various categories such as Saddest Actor, Saddest Supporting Actress, Saddest Soundtrack …]]>Traditionally, the end of the movie year is celebrated in a star-studded ceremony called the Sadcademy Awards.
The saddest films from Hollywood and around the world are honoured in various categories such as Saddest Actor, Saddest Supporting Actress, Saddest Soundtrack and Saddest Documentary.
If you’re as big a fan of sad movies as I am, this was a great year. You couldn’t swing a sad cat without hitting a sad movie. Time and again this winter, I found myself trudging through the cold and snow, the darkness closing in around me until it felt like I was suffocating, grimly lining up to see the bleakest, most deflating and soul-crushing films on the planet.
And it was awesome! Terrifying diseases, broken dreams and cruel laws made life a living hell for unsuspecting movie characters this year. There’s nothing like the misfortune of others to make you forget your personal petty concerns and send you back into the world feeling better about your own lot in life. Perhaps this is catharsis at work, an ancient Greek dramatic principle that can be defined as “God, that movie was sooo depressing. I need ice cream.”
It’s a shame that every sad movie can’t win a trophy but the fact is that some are just plain sadder than others. That’s where the Sadcademy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences comes in. Members vote on the saddest movies of the year and throw a party for them so that Jack Nicholson has something to do on a Sunday night in February.
Here’s a look at some of my personal sad picks of the year.
■ Nightcrawler. A jobless outcast in L.A. builds a successful business after learning he can sell gory video to local TV stations. It’s a brilliant indictment of the dark side of the American dream — the amoral quest for success at any cost. Jake Gyllenhaal stars. With his eyes buried deep into his forehead (apparently, he lost three or four hundred pounds for the role), he looks hungry and deranged.
Best of all is the unnerving sense of sadness throughout Nightcrawler as the grasping, glum characters, desperate for employment, TV ratings or money, try to get what they can out of life. If you’re ever feeling overly happy or optimistic, Nightcrawler is the cure.
■ The Imitation Game. So very sad. A brilliant man practically wins the Second World War on his own by breaking the Nazi code yet he’s persecuted for his sexual orientation and dies a lonely death. Bonus marks because it’s a true story.
■ American Sniper. A Navy SEAL’s descent into madness is halted when he devotes his life to helping physically and mentally wounded veterans. And then (spoiler alert!) just as he’s getting his life back in order, he’s killed by a veteran he was trying to help. Another true story. Geez.
■ Birdman. A washed-up movie actor typecast as a superhero attempts a comeback in theatre until the pressure drives him to the brink of suicide. Resonates with real life because the star, Michael Keaton, also returned from oblivion after being typecast as a superhero.
■ Whiplash. A possibly psychotic and definitely sadistic jazz instructor gets the most out of an ambitious student by using methods of torture that would make a CIA operative blush.
■ Still Alice. A top linguistics professor has her life ironically ruined by early onset Alzheimer’s disease. Julianne Moore is spectacular, as always. Saddest part: Before she loses her mind, Alice leaves a video message for her future debilitated self telling her where a deadly dose of sleeping pills is hidden. Oh, man.
OK, enough of all this fun. What everyone wants to know is which movie will win this year. The envelope, please. Ah, yes, an excellent choice. The Saddie for best sad movie of the year goes to . . . Foxcatcher.
Foxcatcher is the story of a social misfit millionaire who is obsessed with the U.S. wrestling team and delusionally sets himself up as the coach.
Virtually unrecognizable in the part (How does he stick his ears out like that? What happened to his neck?), Steve Carell makes you forget all of his previous comedic work in portraying the joyless, disturbed rich guy. He’s pathetic, unpredictable and scary all at the same time.
The ending (spoiler alert again!) comes out of nowhere as the bitter, strange man shoots to death an imagined rival. Did not see that coming. And to top it off, Foxcatcher is another true story. It would have been crushingly sad if only half of it had been true.
Now, connoisseurs of sadness are trained in the art of detecting subtle nuances in sad films. In Foxcatcher, the most astute Sadcademy voters would have noted the unmistakable flavour of despair lurking under the obvious general sadness, not to mention strong hints of blackberry, vanilla and irony as we enter the world of a man whose riches have done nothing to make him happy.
And, finally, there’s that senseless outcome which adds a note of bewilderment to the proceedings. You leave the theatre dumbfounded and disorientated by the bleak spectacle. Only the greatest sad movies can do that. Treat yourself to Foxcatcher if you get the chance. It’s a double-scoop-of-brownie-delight kind of movie.]]>http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/02/21/it-was-a-happy-year-for-sad-movies/feed/0camfullerValentine’s Day: The Interviewhttp://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/02/14/valentines-day-the-interview/
http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/02/14/valentines-day-the-interview/#commentsSat, 14 Feb 2015 16:10:00 +0000http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/?p=8797CF: Thanks for fitting me in, I know you’re busy this time of year.
VD: No problem, honey. I love to talk about myself. Fancy a chocolate?
CF: No thank you, I just had lunch.
VD: Are you sure? Look …]]>CF: Thanks for fitting me in, I know you’re busy this time of year.
VD: No problem, honey. I love to talk about myself. Fancy a chocolate?
CF: No thank you, I just had lunch.
VD: Are you sure? Look at the heart-shaped box. Isn’t it cute?
CF: Well, maybe just one. Oh my, orange cream.
VD: Not your favourite?
CF: No, it’s fine, really. Thanks for doing this, by the way. Before we start, can I confirm the spelling of your name? Is it Valentine’s Day — with an apostrophe — or just Valentines Day. I’ve seen both.
VD: It’s Valentine’s Day. I can understand the confusion because the apostrophe is silent.
CF: Thanks for clearing that up. And do you always wear red?
VD: Always. Except for my boa. I have a million of them, most of which are pink.
CF: It’s lovely. So how are you keeping? I’m guessing you must be about 2,600 years old by now.
VD: I never divulge my age but I’ve never felt better. There are benefits to working only one day a year, darling.
CF: That may be so, but you have to retire eventually. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’m curious if you saw the survey that just came out.
VD: Honestly, I don’t have time to read surveys.
CF: Really? Didn’t you post something on Facebook recently that more or less said “don’t believe that new survey on me that just came out”?
VD: Oh, THAT survey.
CF: Indeed. Apparently, the vast majority of people think you are “overhyped” — 74 per cent of people who are in a relationship and 80 per cent of people who aren’t. In other words, they’re not that into you.
VD: A statistical anomaly, I’m sure. What kind of study was this, anyway — a scientific analysis of three people at a gas station?
CF: Actually, it was an online survey of 1,517 randomly selected Canadian adults on the Angus Reid Forum panel, statistically weighted according to education, age, gender and region, with a margin of error of plus or minus 2.5 per cent, 19 times out of 20.
VD: Numbers, math, statistics. Who cares? My field of expertise is the human heart. Mortals are delightful creatures, full of love and passion. My role is to give them a special day to celebrate their romantic feelings by going out to dinner and a movie or buying flowers and chocolate.
CF: Funny you should mention those things. According to the survey, dinner and a movie is dead. Only 13 per cent of people planned to do that — even though you were to fall on a Saturday this year. And only 28 per cent planned to buy flowers and candy.
VD: Oh really? If no one cares, why do they keep giving each other cards about me? Have another chocolate.
CF: No, thanks.
VD: Please, I insist.
CF: Yikes. Maraschino cherry. So very sweet.
VD: Oh and by the way, did you know that according to the National Retail Federation, people will spend more than $142 each on me this year?
CF: I suppose that’s possible, but don’t you think it’s because people kind of feel obligated to buy each other presents on your day? Like, if they didn’t play along, their loved one would think they didn’t love them anymore? Kind of ridiculous when you think about it. Wouldn’t it be better if they didn’t feel pressured?
VD: Ridiculous. By that reasoning, Christmas would still be a quirky regional holiday stuck in a corner of Lichtenstein. No, you have to give people a reason to be generous or they’ll put it off indefinitely. Particularly men. Now eat another chocolate.
CF: I couldn’t possibly.
VD: Have one.
CF: No, really I’m fine.
VD: Listen, I’m not above sitting on you, prying your mouth open and force-feeding the rest of this damn box into you. So take one.
CF: All right then. Nougat. Never really cared for nougat. Feeling a little woozy now.
VD: Good. You’re supposed to. It’s the same sensation as being love sick.
CF: OK, now if I could just focus on my notebook. Oh, yes. I was going to ask you about men. They feel obligated to obey you. In fact, according to research, men spend twice as much money on Valentine’s Day as women. Why is that?
VD: Because women deserve it.
CF: I’m sure they do, but if a relationship is 50-50, is it fair that the man should spend significantly more?
VD: You’re talking about things you buy in a store. Maybe women give gifts that don’t have a price tag attached.
CF: I’m not sure I follow you.
VD: Well, some things (wink, wink) don’t come from a store (wink, wink).
CF: Is there something in your eye? A feather from your boa, perhaps?
VD: There’s nothing in my eye but a twinkle, love. Do I have to spell it out for you (wink, wink)?
CF: Wait a minute. I think I’m getting it. Like, instead of going out, a couple might stay in and have some home cooking?
VD: Exactly, darling. He buys the flowers, she heats things up. You’re a man. Don’t you appreciate a little home cooking once in awhile?
CF: Of course. But if you go to a restaurant, you don’t have to do the dishes.
VD: Oh, God, you’re hopeless. Have another chocolate.
CF: Please, no! Forget the survey. I’ll write that everyone thinks you’re great and leave it at that. Just don’t make me eat another chocolate.
VD: Heh, heh. Works every time.]]>http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/02/14/valentines-day-the-interview/feed/0camfullerThis is what not complaining about the dentist sounds likehttp://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/02/07/this-is-what-not-complaining-about-the-dentist-sounds-like/
http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/02/07/this-is-what-not-complaining-about-the-dentist-sounds-like/#commentsSat, 07 Feb 2015 21:57:13 +0000http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/?p=8794I’m not one of those people who complain about going to the dentist.
It’s like what they say about voting. If you don’t vote, don’t complain. Well, if you chew, then keep your mouth shut about the dentist.
In things …]]>I’m not one of those people who complain about going to the dentist.
It’s like what they say about voting. If you don’t vote, don’t complain. Well, if you chew, then keep your mouth shut about the dentist.
In things we take for granted, chewing is second only to breathing. I just chomped through an apple in four minutes flat without even thinking about it. I would have thought more about it if I got a piece of apple skin stuck between my molar and my gum. I hate that. I hate it so much that I have no misgivings about getting a finger in there with a sharp fingernail and manually extracting it. Remind me to stop doing that in the middle of staff meetings.
So I’m not going to complain about getting two fillings this week. Not one bit. First of all, I was highly motivated. The cavities were in a prime apple-crunching neighbourhood of my mouth — valuable real estate that I just can’t allow to get run down.
So I got to the dentist’s office on time and prepared to wait and wait and wait. But they called me two seconds after I sat down so I can’t complain about that. I don’t care if you’re a mechanic or a movie theatre, a dentist, doctor or rock band — if you don’t keep me waiting, I’m loyal for life.
Once I was in the chair, it wasn’t long before they put the green rubber dam in my mouth. Everyone complains about these things because they allow themselves to imagine how weird they must look, which I’m guessing is like a bullfrog in mid-croak. But I don’t do that so it’s not an issue. Ribbit.
To pass the time while the dam was being installed — forcing me to breathe through my nose which ramped up the anxious feelings of confinement — I didn’t complain. I simply and calmly thought, “Hmm. This must be what it’s like to have someone smother you to death with a birthday balloon.”
There were various other steps in the tooth-filling procedure, not one of which is worth complaining about in any way. For instance:
■ The needle. Some people dislike a needle going into their gums but for me, it’s mind over matter. A topical anesthetic is applied to the gum first, so you really don’t feel the needle going in — all 12 feet of it or so. And you can hardly tell when it’s slowly and ever so gently extracted and reinserted in a different spot a time or two. I should know by now that the first poke is never the only one. I should, therefore, avoid using up all my courage on the first poke and save some for the subsequent ones. Perhaps next time.
■ The freezing. I can’t complain about waiting for the numbness to set in because, looked at objectively, it’s fascinating. Same with the time I had general anesthetic for a knee operation and they told me I’d taste something like garlic in my mouth before it knocked me out. So true. My last waking thought was “Hey, g . . . ” The next thing I knew, it was dark outside and they wanted me to eat toast.
■ The drilling. I could lie and say I don’t mind the drilling. One time, my old dentist started drilling before the freezing had kicked in — AND I TOUGHED IT OUT BECAUSE I DIDN’T WANT TO MAKE A FUSS. Was I frozen this time? Yeth. Yeth, I was. I haven’t had a filling in years. It seems they’ve toned down the piercing wail of the drill. It feels less like an ice pick in your temple now, so it has that going for it.
■ The suction. While you’re getting drilled, they spritz water on your tooth and suck it up, but some always gets under the dam. I never know what to do at that point — remain philosophical about the escalating sensation of drowning or demand some suction. But with your mouth wide open and the drill going full-out, there’s no way to say anything that doesn’t sound like “Aghw! Aghw!” so what I like to do is wait until breathing through my nose no longer supplies enough oxygen to my brain. Then I’ll subtly swallow the water, hoping there are no tooth chunks in it, and take a life-saving full breath. Too glad to be alive at that point to complain.
What dentists really need — and this is not a complaint, merely an observation — are signs for the patient to hold in each hand so they can communicate as the situation dictates: “YES.” “NO.” “SUCTION, PLEASE.” “I’M SORRY BUT THE FREEZING DIDN’T WORK AND I’M IN EXCRUCIATING PAIN.” “HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE FOR THE SMOKE FROM MY BURNING TOOTH TO DISSIPATE, AND IS THERE A CHANCE YOU COULD PUT A CLOTHESPIN ON MY NOSE SO I CAN’T SMELL IT?” Just the basics, obviously.
But as it happens, my double filling went so smoothly I have no complaints whatsoever — as long as our dental plan covers the bill, which was substantial. If not, I might have to do the next one myself in the garage. Then you’ll hear me howl, I tell you. ]]>http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/02/07/this-is-what-not-complaining-about-the-dentist-sounds-like/feed/0camfullerNow that I’m shooting video, look out!http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/31/now-that-im-shooting-video-look-out/
http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/31/now-that-im-shooting-video-look-out/#commentsSat, 31 Jan 2015 16:54:56 +0000http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/?p=8792Headline: Old Dog Learns New TrickSubhead: Fuller Shoots VideoSub-subhead: Video Shoots Back
My job is evolving. Up till now, I was just a word wrangler. Out on the writing range with my trusty keyboard, I spent my days …]]>Headline: Old Dog Learns New TrickSubhead: Fuller Shoots VideoSub-subhead: Video Shoots Back
My job is evolving. Up till now, I was just a word wrangler. Out on the writing range with my trusty keyboard, I spent my days on the lookout for stray modifiers and the odd participle dangling perilously over a canyon. Words. Don’t try to understand ’em, just rope, throw and brand ’em.
But thanks to the Internet, we’re so much more than a newspaper. The web is open 24 hours and day, seven days a week, and it has a voracious appetite. What it likes most, of course, are cat videos. We don’t do a lot of cat videos, although we had a raccoon video last year that got tons of clicks. Clicks. They’re like applause. If you get enough clicks, your video will go “viral” and possibly “break the Internet.” We’d absolutely love to break the bloody Internet.
You can put pretty much anything on the Internet. You can put words there to save people — or “users” — the trouble of reading books. But what people really seem to like are videos. We should have learned this years ago when TV personalities starting making 10 times more money than ink-stained wretches. But newspapermen were content to toil in obscurity, secure in the knowledge of the following: You can make a hat out of a newspaper. You can’t make a hat out of a TV set.
There was a time, even in television journalism, where a lowly reporter was not allowed to even touch a video camera. They cost something like $50,000 and would break into a million pieces if a reporter even looked at it. Things were easier then. The camera operator considered the reporter to be a complete idiot and the reporter considered the camera operator to be a big jerk. In other words, everyone got along fine.
But cameras are cheaper now and easy to use. They’re simple. That’s where I come in.
I used to show up at an event with a notebook and pen. Ask a question, scribble some notes. Done and done. But now I’m shooting video, too. Or trying to. I’m not exactly comfortable yet. It’s not like when my kids were small. They’d be doing something cute so you’d get the camera out and they’d immediately stop doing that cute thing and come rushing toward the camera and drool on the lens. ADORABLE. You wouldn’t see the mayor do that, though if he did it would definitely go viral.
In the real world, getting video is not as easy as it looks. A while back, I invited a musician to play a song in our newsroom studio. One guy, one guitar, one camera. Simple. I got him to play the song twice so we could edit in close-ups. God, I’m clever. After he left, I checked my footage. Looked great. But the sound kept cutting in and out. I learned later that the batteries in the mic were going dead. I couldn’t use anything. It’s not like getting back from an interview and being unable to read a quote or two in your notebook. You can at least fudge that. What was I going to do with the guitar guy, record a track of me humming the melody?
Another typical shoot is a play rehearsal. Theatres usually invite the media to get photos and videos before opening night. I’ve seen countless TV guys at these events. They set up their tripods, get a shot, whip the camera off for some hand-held close-ups and they’re out of there. How hard could it be?
I arrived at one such shoot this week. My camera would not attach to my tripod because someone had borrowed the mounting thingy. I briefly considered asking for tape before deciding to fake it by resting the camera on the tripod. I was unable to pan but you’re not supposed to do too much of that because camera movement calls way more attention to itself than you think and it looks stupid.
The actors, portraying a romantic royal couple, started acting. So far, so good. But then the prince walked partially out of the frame. The scene continued with the princess expressing her love for what appeared to be some dude’s nose.
Just as I was despairing at my unusable footage, the king came in. But he stopped before entering my frame. Now I had a disembodied voice saying stuff.
The actors did the scene again. I went for some close-ups. The second I had the princess in focus, she stopped talking. Everyone else around her was all “bla bla bla” but she was just standing there. It was less than compelling. There is no category in the Academy Awards called “just standing there.” I switched to the King. My timing was impeccable; he also stopped talking.
Oh well. At least I had the director. I asked him a few questions on camera. That went fine. But back in the car, I started to wonder if I’d pressed Stop at the start of the interview and Start at the end. I know all about that. I’ve got an hour of birthday party footage with the camera desperately trying to focus on an extreme close-up of the couch.
Chest pounding, I hurried into the office to check my video. Phew. All there. I even had audio. And miraculously, after editing, it all turned out fine. It’s not good enough to go viral, mind you. But once I get the hang of it, I’ll be sneaking cats into every shoot.]]>http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/31/now-that-im-shooting-video-look-out/feed/0camfullerThree things I wish I’d bought two ofhttp://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/24/three-things-i-wish-id-bought-two-of/
http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/24/three-things-i-wish-id-bought-two-of/#commentsSat, 24 Jan 2015 21:18:42 +0000http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/?p=8770Things wear out. It’s a fact of consumer life.
And when they do, you buy another one. But what happens when the things that wear out can’t be replaced because they don’t make them anymore?
Well, I guess you could …]]>Things wear out. It’s a fact of consumer life.
And when they do, you buy another one. But what happens when the things that wear out can’t be replaced because they don’t make them anymore?
Well, I guess you could say that you’re left with a Corolla-sized hole in your heart. That car is one of three things I loved and lost, never to see again. It’s so sad I’m crying windshield washer tears.
1. A 1978 Corolla was my first car and it was a great car, despite its limitations — vinyl seats, for instance. The interior got so hot in summer that a film built up on the inside of the windshield from the off-gassing. “I’m sure there were no lasting effects,” he said, his eye twitching mildly.
But it must have been a good car because it took everything a moody, impulsive teen could throw at it and came back for more. It had a stick shift, which was the best part. I once got rubber in two gears — two gears! — and it wasn’t even raining at the time. That was when Mark from high school tried to go me at the lights in his Maverick. I knew I could take him, especially since he had a passenger. The light changed to green, I popped the clutch and floored it. First to second: Chirp! Second to third: Chirp! Wow. Even I was surprised. It was like a librarian taking off her glasses and letting her hair down.
Naturally, I had no idea how ridiculous this looked. Teenage judgment doesn’t work that way, much like it doesn’t intervene when your brain says, “The road is really icy. I should pull the handbrake and spin out.”
The Corolla survived me but it had no answer for the rust that appeared around the fenders and spread worse that acne. I drove it for 13 years without a single mechanical failure that wasn’t my own stupid fault. The engine and transmission were bulletproof, which made getting rid of it so sad. I’d buy another one tomorrow. But Toyota doesn’t make 1978 Corollas anymore. Talk about short-sighted.

2. I grew up, somehow. And after I did, I bought a house. And after buying a house, I started fixing it. And after a few years of fixing it, I discovered some excellent work pants in the work wear store. I didn’t know I needed work pants until I saw these ones and realized how inadequate my old jeans were. The best feature was a pair of double pockets. Each front pocket pulled out so you could use it as a nail pouch or to carry bulky items like a tape measure. I loved those pants. Loved them to death. When they wore out, I went back for another pair and discovered they’re extinct. You can still get work pants, but not like these. Not with those excellent pouch pockets. Now I’m forced to work in jeans with pockets full of nails. Do you what it’s like to bend over with a pocket full of nails?

3. Some things wear out, others disappear. Take my indoor shoes. Actually you can’t take them because they are no longer a “they” but an “it.”
I was a sock person for a long time before discovering the comfort and practicality of indoor shoes. You can vacuum all day in them and if you happen to step on something like dog drool it doesn’t matter. Step on dog drool in your socks and you’re looking for another pair of socks. Usually, I’d just declare an old pair of running shoes to be my indoor shoes and wear them until the soles needed to be duct-taped in place. But then I discovered these fabulous mesh shoes at Ecco. The sales guy was clever. “They’re made from the same material as a wet suit,” he said. I’m a sucker for talk like that.
I had those mesh shoes so long that it’s almost like I never did not have them. They were perfect — light and cool but substantial enough to do the work of real shoes. I even took them with me when I went to somebody else’s house — which turned out to be their downfall. My arms were full so I entrusted my indoor shoes to a family member who set them on the roof and forgot about them. One of the two survived the 10-kilometre journey thanks to the roof rack, the other did not. My beloved indoor shoe had been reduced to something you see out of the corner of your eye when you’re on the freeway. “Hmm. One shoe. Wonder how that happens.” Well now you know.
My inclination, of course, was to find the exact same kind of mesh shoes. I did some research, expecting to be disappointed. But there they were on the Ecco online store! Yay! I was about to buy them when I noticed a tiny little detail. They were available in women’s only. I would have bought them anyway but the biggest size they came in was 42. I needed 43. The only question now is whether I can vaccum the house on one leg.

]]>http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/24/three-things-i-wish-id-bought-two-of/feed/0camfullerMaybe there’s an upside to the downturnhttp://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/17/maybe-theres-an-upside-to-the-downturn/
http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/17/maybe-theres-an-upside-to-the-downturn/#commentsSat, 17 Jan 2015 18:36:11 +0000http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/?p=8752I have to admit to a certain amount of frustration and envy whenever I hear that a new bar or restaurant has opened in this booming city, an event that occurs every seven seconds or so.
On one hand, these …]]>I have to admit to a certain amount of frustration and envy whenever I hear that a new bar or restaurant has opened in this booming city, an event that occurs every seven seconds or so.
On one hand, these new places are enhancing the hell out of our vibrant culture, making us feel like the big city we always wanted to be. Charcuterie. Taphouse. We’re just too-too, n’est pas?
Wait a second. “Taphouse?” Before watering holes like the Patricia Hotel were torn down, the word didn’t exist. If you wanted beer that came out of a tap, you were some kind of troublemaker. Beer comes in bottles — you want one or not? No, you can’t have a glass with it — you think we have time around here to wash glasses?
There are too many cool new places to keep track of, much less visit. On the other hand, somewhere along the line, I stopped being a go-there-and-check-it-out kind of person. God, it takes all day to get home where it’s warm and quiet — why would I want to go out again? And anyway, it’s just easier to go to the places I know. There are, at last count, two of them.
But now that we’re on the brink of the next Great Depression thanks to the collapse of the oil industry and the domino-trickle-down-shock waves that will hit our craft-beer-based economy, none of this will matter anyway. All the places that I never got a chance to get to, from the quaint, locally owned organic eatery that will only serve meat and produce that’s been killed within a two-block radius, to the latest I-can’t-believe-it’s-a-franchise franchise, will be boarded up anyway. If all this is about me — and believe me, it is — that’s win-win.
But that’s just one benefit of the economic chaos that awaits us. Here are a few more:Fewer jerks in trucks. Ahh. Imagine a world where you’re driving along and a jerk in a huge, diesel-belching, un-muffled pickup who got rich moiling for oil in northern Alberta ISN’T riding your ass. He isn’t doing that because he got laid off and his 4×4 vehicular monstrosity of a codpiece has been repossessed. Oh, the peace, oh, the serenity.Train travel. Riding the rails was out of favour for decades. But now, you can hardly find room. In a box car. Going anywhere.Stick and Sachel business booms. Because luggage is for, you know, people with jobs.Great literature. From battlefields to the boardroom, social upheaval inspires great art. War and Peace and The Grapes of Wrath were not written when everything was hunky dory. Right this minute, the great novels of the next decade of the 21st century are being mapped out. Suggested titles: Gone with the Tar Sands; For Whom the Barrel Tolls; Catch-22 (Cents a litre).Fresh Air. Once everyone is out of work and no one can afford to drive despite all the free gasoline, they will have no choice but to walk or ride bicycles. Pollution takes a holiday, everyone gets fit and Weight Watchers finally realizes its goal of putting itself out of business.No More Depressing TSX news. In fact, the only “stock market” that exists is the one downtown where the last few cows are being sold off.Free gold. Analysts were predicting it would hit $4,000 an ounce. Those analysts are now dumpster diving for mouldy bagels. There is justice in the world.Traditional family values. Forget the career, Mom’s at home. So’s Dad. Neighbourhoods, which used to be a place where you kept a house to sleep in between work days, actually have people in them again. Kids will play games like kick-the-can and pretend-to-drive-the-abandoned car. Neighbours will learn each other’s names and have actual conversations over the back fence. Conversations like, “Say, Bob, you wouldn’t happen to know how to grow steak, would you?”The language blooms. When is the last time you used colourful nouns like “bum,” “hobo” or “vagabond” in a sentence? You will now, brother.Nostalgia. Do you remember when your house cost $110,000. No? Well it does now. Inevitably, you’ll find yourself watching the X-Files — or at least wishing you could if only you had electricity. Padded shoulders and Elaine Benes hair aren’t far behind. It’s the ’90s again, the economy is in ruins and George is back, baby!]]>http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/17/maybe-theres-an-upside-to-the-downturn/feed/0camfullerHey you, grow a spine and take this assertiveness testhttp://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/10/hey-you-grow-a-spine-and-take-this-assertiveness-test/
http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/10/hey-you-grow-a-spine-and-take-this-assertiveness-test/#commentsSat, 10 Jan 2015 23:14:24 +0000http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/?p=8745Grocery store cashiers have lately been called upon to ask for money on behalf of charities.
“Would you like to make a donation to something-something-thioma?” they will ask. If you do, you get to write your name on a piece …]]>Grocery store cashiers have lately been called upon to ask for money on behalf of charities.
“Would you like to make a donation to something-something-thioma?” they will ask. If you do, you get to write your name on a piece of paper shaped like a hand or heart or spleen or prostate to be displayed on the store’s walls. I usually say yes when I’m asked to contribute, even if I don’t feel like it. When the day comes and the doctor says, “Cam, you have something-something-thioma,” I don’t want my first thought to be a slow-motion flashback of an extreme close-up of my mouth the exact moment when I told the cashier, “No thanks, I’d rather save two bucks.”
Now I know why I say yes when I really mean no. I’m nice. In fact, I’m so nice it hurts.
According to a new survey, nice people run the risk of being unhappy because they are not assertive enough.
HEY YOU! DID YOU GET THAT? WE’RE NOT ASSERTIVE ENOUGH!
You’d think that being nice would be one of those “good” problems to have — like too many Aston Martins or closets full of caviar. But the downside of niceness is that it makes one susceptible to what you might call doormatitis, the state of being a doormat. The nicer you are, the more people walk all over you.
The company PsychTests, an Internet entity “that creates an interactive venue for self-exploration with a healthy dose of fun,” emailed me its assertiveness survey this week. A more assertive person might have deleted the unsolicited solicitation. Not me. My junk filter let it through, so clearly that was good enough for me. I clicked on the link and answered all the questions to the nicest of my ability.
Question 1. “I avoid dealing with difficult situations involving confrontation.” I didn’t want to put up a fuss on the very first question, so I said “often.”
Question 2. “I feel people take advantage of me.” I don’t feel like people take advantage of me, but I answered “sometimes” rather than “rarely,” because, let’s face it, I’d stopped everything I was doing to fill out a random survey, hadn’t I?
Question 3. “Talking to people in positions of authority makes me feel nervous, self-conscious or unsure of myself.” Um, does stammering, blushing, knocking over a glass coffee table and running away in tears after the boss says “How’s it going, Cam?” count?
Question 4. “I behave in a self-confident manner.” Are you serious? Did you see Question 3?
Question 5. “I express my opinions, even if others in the group disagree with me.” Honestly, I was just thinking I should try that.
And so it went. The clincher was Question 9: “When an argument is over, I replay the situation in my head, thinking of all the things I could have said, regretting that I hadn’t thought of them then, or wishing I had the guts to say them.”
That one really hit home. Not only do I do that, but I do it extremely well. You don’t want to have a confrontation with me, boy, because for hours after you’ve forgotten about it, I will be devising retorts so devastatingly clever that you’d be scared to death to ever cross me again. Take that, hypothetical person who doesn’t know that I’m still thinking of them and wouldn’t care if they did. God, that felt gooood.
PsychTests got 6,717 people to take their Assertiveness Test (I like to think that about 6,000 somehow felt obligated to do so). The respondents were broken down into three categories.
Group 1: Those comfortable asserting themselves even if it means saying “no” to others.
Group 2: Those who occasionally assert themselves.
Group 3: Those who are too nice, avoid confrontation, and who bend over backwards to accommodate other people.
The vast majority of Group 3 types hate confrontation and lack self-confidence. Sixty-three per cent are too humble to accept compliments. But let’s face it, what are you going to compliment them about? (“Sally, you’re so excellent at putting yourself last!”) On the other hand, 87 per cent of highly assertive people are only too happy to accept a compliment. Because they agree that they really are as awesome as you think.
So how did I do? My score was 44 out of 100. I have no idea what that means. Either I’m less than half as assertive as a fully assertive person or I’m less than half as unassertive as the least assertive person. What a huge disappointment. I’ve got half a mind to get PsychTests on the line and blast them for wasting 10 minutes of my time. They’re just lucky I’m so nice.]]>http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/10/hey-you-grow-a-spine-and-take-this-assertiveness-test/feed/0camfullerBest of Fuller: O Christmas tree, how disposable are thy brancheshttp://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/08/best-of-fuller-o-christmas-tree-how-disposable-are-thy-branches/
http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/08/best-of-fuller-o-christmas-tree-how-disposable-are-thy-branches/#commentsThu, 08 Jan 2015 17:24:36 +0000http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/?p=8738Breaking up is hard to do, particularly when it’s with a tree.
There’s a tinder-dry evergreen in the corner of our living room right now, blissfully unaware of what horrors await.
The call came in from the governor and the …]]>Breaking up is hard to do, particularly when it’s with a tree.
There’s a tinder-dry evergreen in the corner of our living room right now, blissfully unaware of what horrors await.
The call came in from the governor and the news isn’t good. All avenues of appeal have been exhausted. Its time is up. It’s a ticking tannenbaum.
The tree has been undecorated for a week now. A puddle of needles is accumulating at its base. It looks naked — strangely enough, more naked that it did when it first came into the house, as if undecorating removes something special and intangible along with the ornaments. Hope maybe. Or trust.
No relationship is as hot and cold as the one between the Christmas reveller and his tree. You couldn’t wait to set it up and decorate it. You played special music for the occasion, perhaps while sipping a nutmeggy concoction of milk and eggs. You assiduously cut a piece from the trunk to expose fresh, moisture-sucking wood, knowing that failing to do so would invite disaster. Perhaps you counted the rings, taking quiet note of the hard years where the rings were close together and the easy years where they were far apart. There’s a lesson here. About what, exactly, I’m not sure.
After taking pains to make sure it was straight in the stand, you went through bouts of hydration agonization, filling the reservoir with hot water, just like the directions said, to open up the pores. The first time you forgot to replenish the container and found the stump sitting in nothing but air was terribly upsetting, the guilt tremendous. You let it down, man. You let the whole family down.
All those pitched emotions are but a dim memory now. It might as well have happened four months ago, not four weeks ago. The minute that proud fir or pine or spruce no longer gave shelter to the gaudy village of wrapped presents below, it became expendable. Did you forget to plug in the twinkle lights last night? Oh well. Was there water in the base this morning? Maybe. But it’s such a hassle to crawl under and check.
The American Dialect Society’s latest Word of the Year is “plutoed.” Something that’s been diminished or stripped of its significance, as the former planet was, is said to have been plutoed. Look up the word in the dictionary and there will be a picture of your undecorated tree beside it.
Ephemeral is another good word. It describes the life span of a Christmas tree lot. Teeming with busy parents and excited kids one day, then abandoned the next. Even on Dec. 24, on the brink of unleashed joy, if you drive by a dark corner of a mall parking lot you’ll see an empty tree lot — or worse, one still holding a few unwanted examples on remand, raised and cultivated and harvested and marketed all for naught. Not so much an evergreen as a never-seen. So much sadness.
Are the lows lower than the highs are high? It seems so in January, the month that I fear the most — a vast, wind-blown empty month. Note that it seems longer than December. That extra time is January’s way of pushing your head down when it stands up after tackling you.
Another kind of tree lot springs up now, the tree disposal lot. It’s not unusual to see these drop-off points get their first deliveries on Dec. 26. That’s an incredibly grim sight to me. I often wonder about the day-after tree disposers. Do they despise the holidays, taking the very first opportunity to banish the memory of them from their homes? Or maybe they love it all too much. Maybe they were the ones who put their tree up in November and by now it’s threatening to spontaneously combust. Either way, you’re going to see the Ghost of Christmas Past when you visit the tree dump. Fabulously expensive trees that were oohed and aahed over scant days before are now half-dressed in white garbage bags and sporting nothing but errant strands of tinsel; rich folk passed out after a party.
Disposal is inevitable. But if not at the tree dump, then where? I know someone who slices the limbs off his tree and feeds them into the fireplace. I know it’s wood, but that seems somehow cruel. You just don’t do that do a friend. You can also throw the thing into the backyard and wait for spring, then haul it to the landfill. Another terribly distasteful option.
Even when you’re done with it, it can’t be garbage, it just can’t. If you had the nerve, you might march right back to the store and demand a refund. “Look at all the needles falling off. Surely there’s been a recall. It’s clearly defective.”
The question of when concerns me most, however. Too soon and you’re dishonouring the season. Too late and you’re living in the past. No matter how much you loved it, the tree must go and soon. You don’t want your neighbours to think you’re eccentric. But wait. Haven’t you all been living with dead trees in your houses for the past month? How weird, in itself, is that? It all made sense at the time. It’s like some group hysteria took hold. Worrying about what others think seems a bit of a stretch now. There’s a lesson to be learned here. People who live in houses shouldn’t throw glass ornaments. Or something like that.From Jan. 13, 2007]]>http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2015/01/08/best-of-fuller-o-christmas-tree-how-disposable-are-thy-branches/feed/0camfullerThe Fillmores: They kid because they lovehttp://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2014/12/22/the-fillmores-they-kid-because-they-love/
http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2014/12/22/the-fillmores-they-kid-because-they-love/#commentsMon, 22 Dec 2014 15:45:22 +0000http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/?p=8672If there’s anything the Fillmores enjoyed more than Christmas it was a good practical joke.
Perhaps it was typical in families that didn’t have much in the way of material possessions to find joy in each other rather than frivolous …]]>If there’s anything the Fillmores enjoyed more than Christmas it was a good practical joke.
Perhaps it was typical in families that didn’t have much in the way of material possessions to find joy in each other rather than frivolous luxuries. Not that the Fillmores lacked anything essential. They had heat. That was for certain, because if someone tried to sneak the thermostat up half a degree, Mr. Fillmore would leap from his chair and put an end to that nonsense.
And they definitely had water because Mrs. Fillmore spent the majority of her time washing things with it: Dishes, clothes, floors, walls, ceilings, doors, windows, cupboards, light fixtures, baseboards. She would have washed the cat if she could have, and ironed it, too.
Leon Fillmore, the second-oldest of the six, was but one victim of a Fillmore family practical joke. It occurred on a late summer evening, back in the days when neighbours would visit neighbours by going over to their houses and talking to them.
The visit two doors down was no doubt pleasant, perhaps enlivened by a game of “tag” in the yard by the kids and the smoking of cigarettes in the kitchen by the adults. It ended shortly after dark. Though it seemed they were all in one group on the walk home, in truth there were too many Fillmores to keep track of. Unnoticed was Jed Fillmore, who had run ahead of the pack and up the front steps of the dark, unlocked Fillmore home, there to conceal himself in the front hall closet.
Leon, as far as he knew, was first back home. Waiting for the precise moment, Jed leaped out shouting something that sounded like “oogabooga!!!” Leon’s central nervous system, in that pivotal moment, had a choice to make: fight or flight. To its credit, it chose “fight,” and Leon marshalled all his karate skills in the defence of his family. Any reasonable person would have seen it as heroic work. But the courage of the act was cruelly ignored in the cascade of laughter that ensued. For poor Leon had never in his life taken a karate class and was therefore rather ineffectually chopping at air in the manner of a Hollywood actor, and not a very good Hollywood actor at that.
Decades after the episode, all it took for one Fillmore to crack another Fillmore up was to yell “oogabooga.” Leon failed to see the humour in it.
Boredom is a dangerous thing. One afternoon when he was about 12 and home alone, little Willy Fillmore, the youngest, was bored. Bored, bored, borrrrrred. So he decided to jump down the basement stairs for fun. Other than breaking an ankle or leg, the main risk was smashing one’s head on the ceiling, which would leave one curled up in the fetal position counting stars.
This gave little Willy an idea. He vowed that the first person who came home would find him “dead” at the bottom of the stairs. He waited patiently until he saw the shadows of his sisters rounding the corner, then hurried into position, contorting his body awkwardly. Anesha, in the lead, should have been his victim, but Willy got the giggles when he saw her. Instantly, and without a word spoken, she was “in” on the prank. “Willy!” she cried as Annika came through the doorway next. What Annika saw was her poor little brother folded like bad origami on the cold basement floor.
She screamed. She sobbed. She was inconsolable. From the despair in her voice, Willy knew he’d gone too far. He sprang from his death pose to assure his sister he was still alive, but that seemed to make things worse, tacking confusion onto grim certainty. Annika was inconsolable for at least half an hour at the apparent death and resurrection of the youngest in the family. Willy’s sincere apology staved off the beating he deserved, lucky for him, and life returned to its boring but manageable state.
Christmas in the Fillmore house was special, particularly because it revolved around food. The Fillmores loved food. Christmas dinner usually featured a roast of beef that was often too big for the roasting pan. Mr. Fillmore insisted the roast be cooked well past well done because he didn’t like to hear his beef “mooing” when he ate it. The roast took hours to cook, the succulent smell floating into every corner of the house until the anticipation was unbearable.
Leon, the most meticulous of the bunch, inherited the task of carving. Sundry Fillmores — adult, children, in-laws and such — hovered around him for the ritual. They were after the crispy, blackened end piece which was prized above all others. Often, whoever got the blackened slice would lick it to keep the others away. Occasionally, the saliva gambit didn’t work; a marauding sibling would pop the piece into his own mouth anyway, which says more than you need to know about the audacity of the Fillmores and their insatiable appetites.
There were countless go-withs at the dinner table, of course — gherkins, pickled beets. And black olives. One year, in what must have been a dazed, exhausted and sleep-deprived final trip to the grocery store, Mrs. Fillmore came home with a can of un-pitted black olives.
Christmas dinner proceeded as planned, with one variation. Passing by Annika’s unguarded plate, Jed had an idea. In the manner of the Grinch, it was a wonderful, awful idea. Necessity was clearly the mother of invention, for that day a cherished Fillmore holiday tradition was born.
One can only imagine how Annika felt, innocently eating her mashed potatoes until she bit into an olive pit that had been sucked clean only seconds before.
The rest of the incident is best left to the imagination. But knowing the Fillmores, you can bet that the olive pit joke was met around the table with jocularity — the degree and kind in keeping with the situation, which is to say measured and modest. We might also assume that nobody chased anybody around the living room with a butter knife or dangerous utensil of any sort.
And on that happy note of family affection, may I take the liberty of wishing you and yours, on behalf of the Fillmores, a very merry Christmas and a new year that is not, in any way, the pits.]]>http://blogs.thestarphoenix.com/2014/12/22/the-fillmores-they-kid-because-they-love/feed/0camfuller